


Unzipped

by RosYourBoat



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-17 00:14:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4645278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosYourBoat/pseuds/RosYourBoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When House and Wilson are "volunteered" to attend a conference in another state, they arrive only to find that they have been assigned only one room. With one bed. Considering the thoughts Wilson has been having lately, that may be of some concern; House struggles enough with his leg while traveling, they don't need to deal with this, too. </p><p>This fic is incomplete, and will remain so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unzipped

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my recent excavation and expunction of all of my old fics from my hard drive to an online form, where they can be held as an indelible and inescapable memento of my past obsessions. These fics are all unbeta'd and heretofore unseen by anyone but me. I hope someone else feels some of the enjoyment I received from writing them.
> 
> "Unzipped" was written in June of 2009 and is incomplete. It will remain so.

 

“Good morning! How can I enrich your lives with my glorious presence today?” House said mock-cheerfully as he swung open the exam room door and limped inside, glancing over the chart in his hands. His _bitchin’_ cane swung from his wrist, drawing the attention of the tight-lipped woman and her seventeen-year-old daughter while he sat on a swivel stool. He turned his attention to them, making no effort to hide his impatient glance toward the clock.

“Excuse me, are you a doctor?” The thin woman asked with a disapproving glance at his usual work ensemble; sneakers, jeans, and rock tee under his black blazer. House followed her gaze down his body with a surprised look.

“Damn, what gave it away? I made sure to leave my stethoscope at home; it’s a dead giveaway,” he said sarcastically. “I’m Dr. House. You must be… Julie.”

“That’s me,” the teen said, snapping her gum nervously.

“So… what’s the problem? Besides the overwhelming social angst that comes with upper-middle class teenaged suburbia, I mean.”

The mom spoke. “She says she’s on the pill, but she’s been nauseous for the last week and her—” here the woman paused and lowered her voice with a glance to the door as if sharing government secrets, “— _period’s_ late. I brought her in so that you could tell her she’s pregnant, because she won’t listen to me—”

“Oh _God_ , mom, I’m not pregnant!” The girl groaned with a pissed glare. “Jared and I broke up, like, two months ago! God, could you be _any_ more oblivious?”

House rolled his eyes as the mother and daughter began bickering and without warning rolled up to the examination table and leaned in very close to the teenager. She immediately stopped talking and leaned back slightly, blinking. House stared at her intently, his blue eyes tracking over her face and cataloguing everything he saw with the enormous library in his mind. Without a word, he brought his hands up and pressed them against her throat, probing for her lymph nodes, which were slightly enlarged.

“Any dizziness?” He shot out, pinning his eyes on her like a butterfly on a matte board.

“A-a little, after exercising,” she stammered.

“Drowsiness?”

“No.”

“Say ‘ah’.”

“Ahhhh…” House inspected her mouth, noting the lacerations on the inside of her mouth and throat. Her breath smelled of mint gum and an underlying bitterness. He glanced down at her hands, the small scars on the back of her left hand completing his diagnosis.

“Good news is, you’re not pregnant,” he announced, rolling back on his swivel chair to flip open her chart and make some notes.

“I _told_ you,” the girl whined, popping her gum again.

“Wait, y-you could tell just from that? Don’t you need to ultrasound her, or take some tests?” The mother demanded, looking even more pinched and disapproving than before.

“Good thing I took all those tests back in medical school,” House quipped with a glance up at them, “Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to tell that your daughter’s bulimic. Give her plenty of fluids for the dehydration and electrolyte imbalance and get her a therapist for the crappyself-esteem and the constant vomiting.” His attention was caught by something—or more specifically someone—through the window and he smirked to himself.

“Have a nice day,” he added brightly, leaving the shocked pair behind as he flung the door open and limped out. He tossed the file on the counter at the nurse’s station, interrupting the cozy conversation between a pretty young nurse and his best friend.

“Dr. House checks out at—” he squinted at his watch, “—11:38. So, Betty—”

“My name’s Brandi,” the nurse protested weakly, but House ignored her.

“—has Jimmy ‘Panty-Peeler’ Wilson here got his claws into you yet? And by ‘claws’, I mean his—”

“ _House_!” Wilson hissed, grabbing House’s arm and forcibly pulling him away from the counter. He spared an apologetic, if distracted, smile for the nurse. “I’m sorry, Brandi, I’ve got to go. Nice talking to you.”

“Hey, watch the leg! I’m a cripple, not a track runner,” House complained, snagging a sucker from a jar on the counter as Wilson dragged him away. He leered at his exasperated friend. “So… Brandi, huh? Nice stripper name. Looks like she’d look good wrapped around some _pole_ or another, too.”

Wilson ignored the crude humor with a roll of his eyes. “We were just having a conversation—”

“Oh my God, are you _cheating_ on me? I should have known that you would never change!” House said dramatically, loud enough to draw the attention of half the clinic and nurses. “How _could_ you, James? After all the hot, wild monkey sex we had!”

Wilson threw his hands up, his cheeks burning red—much to House’s satisfaction. “Look, I don’t have time for this. I’ve got a meeting with Cuddy now, so you’re on your own for lunch today.”

“Don’t worry about it, I still have your PIN,” House said breezily.

“Good thing I changed it last week.”

“You sly bastard,” House said, wagging his finger with a delighted smirk. “You have your mail sent somewhere other than the apartment, too. I’ve taught you well; I remember when you used to be a spineless doormat. Of course, now you’re just a doormat.”

“I learned from the best.”

“Are we still on for tonight?”

“Yeah. I’ll bring the food, you’ve got the beer, right?”

“Right. Seven o’clock; I’ll eat your bunny slippers if you’re late.”

Wilson waved a hand as he made his way to Cuddy’s office. House smirked and stuck the cherry sucker in his mouth triumphantly. It was an empty threat; ever since Wilson had moved in with him after divorcing Julie, Wilson was always in charge of the meals at “their” apartment and hadn’t failed yet at making something delicious (not that House would ever admit it). And to House’s eternal amusement, Wilson really did have bunny slippers that were a gift from one of his wives. He turned and limped to the elevators, jabbing the ‘up’ button with his cane.

“What was _that_ about?”

“ _That_ was a typical encounter of the third kind between Dr. House and Dr. Wilson.”

“That’s Dr. House?”

“Unfortunately.”

House’s ears perked at the whispered conversation behind him. Apparently Evil Nurse Brenda was showing a fledgling nurse around the clinic. He grinned at the elevator doors and strained to hear the latest gossip about him and Wilson.

“Listen, stay away from House if you can. If you ever do run into him—and you will—just ignore anything he says. It’s the only way you’ll stay sane.”

“But what about Dr. Wilson? Do I have to stay away from him?” House detected the definitely-interested flirty tone that was almost universally used by the female nurses (and half of the male nurses) when they spoke to Wilson. House’s mouth twisted into a frown at the thought of another mindless, drooling groupie added to the oncologist’s fanbase.

“Don’t set your sights too high, girl.” Nurse Brenda was quick to nip this one in the bud. “Dr. Wilson is one of the kindest, most compassionate, friendliest doctors in this hospital, but he’s a serial heart-breaker. He just divorced his third wife and _I_ heard that he cheated on his first two. The man can’t keep his hands—or any other part—to himself.”

“Maybe I don’t want him to,” the girl pouted. House labeled her as super!slut in his mind.

“Trust me, it won’t go anywhere but South.” By now, the elevator had come and gone but House had sidled off to the side, out of Evil Nurse’s line of sight, and continued to listen. He chortled to himself. It seemed that Wilson’s reputation as a man-whore was finally starting to backfire.

“So, does that mean that Dr. House and Dr. Wilson are actually… together? I mean, it sounded like they were just joking, but…”

Nurse Brenda sighed. “And that is the mystery of the universe. No one really knows what the extent of their relationship is, but there are plenty of rumors. They’ve been best friends for over ten years and one betting pool says that that’s all they are. Most people think they’re friends with benefits, but other people are betting that they actually have a secret, full-fledged relationship.” She snorted. “That’s complete crap, of course, since House can’t keep a secret that juicy to save his life. And he’s so possessive of his ‘toys’ that he’d never let Dr. Wilson get married or fool around with women if they were in an actual relationship.”

House rubbed his stubbly jaw, impressed despite himself. Evil Nurse Brenda had him pretty well pegged. Of course, he and Wilson actually _were_ “just” best friends—not counting the endless flirty teasing or that one kiss Wilson had planted on him when he had been blindingly drunk after his second bachelor party.

He thought about that as he finally caught the elevator and rode up to his office. The rumors about him and Wilson were hardly new news. Bring a bunch of neurotic, lonely workaholics with no social lives together in a hospital and you’ve suddenly got a breeding ground for even the most outlandish rumors and bets to while away the hours. There were also rumors about him and Cuddy, him and Cameron, him and Foreman… House shuddered internally. _God, that’s a terrible image._

No, it had been obvious from the beginning that House and Wilson were inseparable despite their wildly different personalities (at least on the outside) and the rumors never ceased to fly thick and fast even when they were both in relationships with other women. He and Wilson joked about it constantly; even fueled the rumors at times for their own amusement. Nothing indicated that Wilson was bothered by the insinuation that he was gay with his best friend (it certainly didn’t bother House; he had batted for both teams since college and he was vaguely flattered that people actually thought that someone as good-looking as Wilson would sleep with him) and House suddenly wondered what Wilson reallythought about the idea.

As with most things, once House had an idea or decision stuck in his mind, he rarely wasted time deliberating or hammering out the details. So that night, over chicken fettuccine alfredo and a monster truck rally on TV, House brought it up.

“The nurses think we’re dating. Or at least screwing each other blind.”

To his credit, Wilson barely blinked. “Really. And this is different from the last fifteen years… how?”

House shrugged. “It doesn’t bother you?”

“No. Should it?”

“You’re a thrice-married heterosexual male being accused of doing the nasty with an older, drug addicted _male_ colleague. You’re Jewish. Most guys would be pissed.”

Wilson looked amused, if slightly bewildered. “No one’s _accusing_ anyone. It’s just harmless hospital gossip, House. Is it really bothering you?”

“Hardly; we made up half of those rumors ourselves,” House scoffed. “Besides, you’ve known I swing both ways since before the infarction.”

“Yeah, when you gave _me_ all your gay porn so Stacy wouldn’t find it when she moved in with you,” Wilson retorted, a faint blush starting to color his cheeks. “ _Why_ are we talking about this, again?” Interesting. A reaction followed by a quick deflection. House was onto something.

“I’m trying to find out why you aren’t more disturbed about being voted in as a doctor in the Village People.” A thought struck him and the familiar triumphant smirk curled at the edge of his mouth as another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Recognizing the look, Wilson’s eyes widened in alarm.

“House—”

“Whatever happened to my gay stash, Wilson? You know, I don’t remember ever getting even a single issue of _Unzipped_ back from you.”

Wilson refused to answer. He gathered up the dirty plates and retreated to the kitchen, where House could hear him start washing the dishes. Interesting. Nearly twenty minutes later, Wilson returned with a fresh beer for both of them and sat down next to House with an explosive sigh. They were halfway through their drinks when Wilson finally spoke again.

“I was…curious,” he mumbled into the mouth of his bottle. House’s eyebrows rose despite himself. “They made it look… It looked like it felt good.”

“There’s something vaguely pleasing about it,” House agreed dryly. Wilson refused to look at him and his cheeks were stained red.

“But I never got around to actually… trying it. I just wasn’t really comfortable taking that kind of step with someone; especially when I’m pushing forty. It’s a little late for a sexual identity crisis. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

House just nodded, acknowledging Wilson’s confession and leaving it well enough alone. At least for tonight. When the morning came, there was just no limit to where House could take this juicy bit of information and from the look of resigned dread on his face, Wilson knew it, too.

“Still not boring.”

* * *

House groaned into his pillow as he woke to the smell of waffles and coffee. He turned over on his back, breathing deeply and reaching for his Vicodin to quiet his grumbling leg. After popping a pill, he collapsed under the warm sheets and listened to the sound of Wilson bustling around the kitchen like some housewife. He smirked at the thought.

Wilson cooked, cleaned, did laundry, blow-dried his hair, clipped his toenails, watched schmutzy movies, painted his fingernails (“nail strengthener”, my _ass_ ), and was girlishly sensitive. How had House, the world-renowned diagnostician, missed his best friend’s bi-curiosity? Probably because the floppy-haired oncologist rarely trusted House with his softer side, but after living together for the past two months, it was hard for either of them to hide much from each other anymore. Wilson learned just how much the infarction affected House’s daily life (including the actual extent of House’s drug dependence) and House learned that Jimmy wasn’t as straight as he made himself out to be. Still, this little revelation explained a lot.

House put off any more thinking when Wilson knocked on the door and announced that his breakfast was getting cold. He grumbled and threw aside his thick comforter, carefully swinging his good leg down and helping his right one along with his hands. He sat for a moment to gather his energy, then heaved himself up to prepare for the day.

He started off slow with only a few light jabs at Wilson’s masculinity over breakfast—hardly worse than his normal repertoire and he could tell that that didn’t make Wilson relax at all. His friend knew him too well. And as the day wore on, even House was impressed by Wilson’s nearly-flawless poker face. No matter how many times House managed to pepper his conversations with the words “bi” or “homo” or “sexual confusion” when he talked within Wilson’s earshot, the other doctor reacted with little more than a raised eyebrow or a faint blush. No embarrassed stammers, no diving for cover or hiding in his office, no exasperated lectures… nothing.

What the hell? Did Wilson inject his entire face with botox before House got up this morning?

When Wilson leaned into the glass-walled conference room, House was about to slide “a _bi_ -lateral stroke of the brain’s _homo_ -spheres” into his differential with his team (which, admittedly, was a stretch even for him), but the expression on Wilson’s face stopped him.

“MRI the guy and find the clot before he strokes out,” he said shortly, shooing them out of the room. “ _Except_ for the Brit and the Bleeding Heart—you two go search his apartment.” Foreman just rolled his eyes as they left and House waited until they were gone before speaking.

“Did you see those scrubs Nurse Brad was wearing today? Asses that fine should be illegal.”

“Cuddy needs to speak with you,” Wilson said flatly, already retreating from the room. “Now.”

House blinked before limping after him hurriedly. “Wait a minute. The only reason why you would be the one to tell me that was if you were already meeting with Cuddy. And if you were already meeting with Cuddy _and_ you aren’t responding to my witty humor then you have bad news. And if you have bad news that involves me meeting with Cuddy now, then the bad news involves me. And the way you’re acting… you two were conspiring against me!”

Wilson held up a staying hand. “Later, House, ok? Just go talk to her and we’ll… hash it out later.”

He was gone before House could respond, his white lab coat twisting around his knees with the force of his retreat. House scowled to himself, hating the feeling of being off-balance. First there was Wilson’s unlikely confession the night before, his strange non-reactions today, and now this. It seemed like there was only one place where he could get his answers. Nurses scattered from before his grim expression as he headed to Cuddy’s office.

Wilson, meanwhile, scurried to his office and sat behind his desk, only managing to relax after listening closely for several minutes and not hearing House’s distinctive _thump-step-shuffle_. He set his elbows on the desk and buried his face in his palms, letting out an unrestrained groan of mortification.

He couldn’t _believe_ what unholy, hellish series of events had led him to this. Okay, he had been a little bit more tipsy than either he or House had realized at the time, but the reckless _need_ for honesty and understanding from _House_ of all people was completely inexcusable. What had he been thinking? The words he had spoken last night would undoubtedly haunt him for months—if not years—to come. House wouldn’t just conveniently forget it, especially after Cuddy had just told him that he was going to accompany (read “ _babysit_ ”) House on a trip to a diagnostics conference in Maine. She had cited her excuse as giving him some time to recuperate after divorcing Julie, but she had to have noticed that his marriage had been dead long ago. He had tried protesting, but Cuddy refused to take “no” for an answer.

“I’ve already got you both booked for a flight out of Princeton in three days,” she had said, forcing the tickets into his numb grasp. “You’ve both got time off—no—” She held up a hand, preempting his protests. “Don’t worry; I’ve cut a deal House can’t refuse. He _will_ get on that plane and give a speech at that conference if he values his life.”

Knowing House, he would agree just for the chance to harass Wilson about his preferences when he wasn’t able to run away. Wilson’s fears were confirmed only twenty minutes later by House bursting through his door with a scowl on his face and a devilish twinkle in his eye. Wilson resisted the strange urge to bury his head in his hands and moan “Why why why has God seen fit to torture me so?”

House moved to sit on the couch, pulling his long, lanky limbs into comfortable positions before thumping his cane on the carpet thoughtfully, his gaze never moving from Wilson’s face. Wilson took a deep breath and focused his attention back on his paperwork. He refused to play this childish game.

“Could we, for one second, pretend that we aren’t acting like teenagers with a bit of juicy gossip? I’m bi-curious. So what? No, there isn’t someone I want to be gay with. No, I don’t plan on acting on it anytime soon—if ever. I’m tired of meaningless flings and spontaneous marriages to—to fulfill some kind of ideal or dream or expectation. I’m—I’m _tired_. I just want someone who will love me and care for me the way I am. I’ll probably never find them. Isn’t that enough for you?”

Silence filled the small office, thick and oppressive. Wilson could barely breathe. House cocked his head to the side like a curious animal, his blue eyes never wavering from Wilson’s face. His expression was unreadable but Wilson could see the wheels of his mind turning. He thumped his cane once, decisively.

“No.”

Then he got up and left Wilson’s office.

* * *

“You see?  _This_ is why I got you up at 6:00 in the morning,” Wilson said smugly as they stood in the security line that seemed to be miles long.

“ _This_ is why Cuddy is both the Wicked Witch of the West and the Second Gunman at the Grassy Knoll—who the hell books a one-hour flight for 7:30 in the morning?”

Wilson shrugged. Truthfully, it _had_ been cruel to book the flight so early. The conference didn’t even begin until tomorrow and the welcome dinner tonight was strictly voluntary… or, at least, it was if your boss wasn’t a high-powered, stressed businesswoman after revenge for being the leading cause of said stress. Wilson was simply collateral damage in the ongoing war between House and Cuddy; he had accepted that long ago.

“Think of it this way; now we’ll have hours and hours to scout out the best bars in town and stock up on pay-per-views,” Wilson suggested. House snorted as he shuffled forward a few steps. His leg was beginning to protest the long periods of standing still and he winced as he leaned a little harder on his cane.

“After an hour of cramped quarters with whiny brats and fat overflowing into my seat, I’ll be crashing on the bed with my pills and whiskey at least until lunch.”

“Not the healthiest combination in the world,” Wilson said dryly. “How about your pills and the heating pad I brought?”

“Aw, but then the whiskey will feel left out,” House pouted.

“I’m sure it’ll survive. No doubt you’ll make it a point to visit it regularly over the next two days.”

“Damn straight.”

Twenty minutes later, they were finally up to the front of the line. The security personnel, looking more bored than they had a right to be at seven in the morning, instructed them to remove their shoes and place their metal belongings in the plastic bins on the conveyor belt. House removed his watch, iPod, Nintendo DS, keys, loose change, cell phone and belt before pausing. After bearing his weight for the last thirty minutes, there was no way his leg was going to let him bend to remove his shoes. Even on a good day he had to sit on his bed to put his damn shoes on. He glanced at the chairs that had been helpfully supplied for the old, fat, and crippled, which were already occupied.

“Sir? You need to remove your shoes; there are a lot of people needing to get through,” said one of the security guards. House resisted the urge to snap back and simply nodded, shifting his weight to his cane hesitantly in preparation for pain. A warm hand on his arm stopped him and he looked up. Wilson, shoeless and smiling that damned smile that never failed to make House’s abdomen feel warm and tingly, squeezed his arm reassuringly and tilted his head in a questioning way. House nodded fractionally. Wilson didn’t hesitate to drop to one knee and slip the Nike Shocks off of House’s feet, providing support for House to balance on and careful not to jar his bad leg.

Within seconds he was limping through the metal detector and being inconspicuously supported by his best friend while they walked to the end of the conveyor belt to gather their things. Wilson helped House back into his shoes before picking up his carry-on, which was undoubtedly packed with everything from his Sherlock Holmes novels to a meticulously-thorough First-Aid kit.

“Let’s go,” Wilson said, eager to escape the teeming security area. House dipped his head in a silent nod; the only thanks he could bring himself to give. Wilson—damn him, he knew House too well—understood the subtle gesture and smiled again. House winced internally as he gimped slowly to their gate, Wilson keeping pace easily as he always did. Finally, they reached the rows of uncomfortable plastic chairs bolted closely together. House couldn’t hold back the grimace when he sat in a chair near the window, Wilson settling in silently beside him.

Without a word, House reached into his blazer pocket and popped off the lid to his pill bottle in a practiced movement that he had done thousands of times before. Shaking out two into his palm, he hesitated for a split second, watching the oblong white pills roll in the folds of his hand. He had taken one only two hours ago. If he was truly honest with himself, he didn’t need two more now, especially since he was feeling more annoyed and frustrated than in pain. Before he could second-guess himself, he swallowed one pill and smoothly returned the other to the vial, capping it and stowing it away.

He could practically feel Wilson’s pride and concern emanating from the seat next to him. He refused to acknowledge that Wilson’s frequent but passionate pleas to at least cut down on the Vicodin were starting to get to him. Without a glance at Wilson, he pulled his iPod from his pocket, stuck the earbuds in, and leaned his head back, losing himself in the music and the narcotic slowly flushing his mind of pain.

Wilson nudged him nearly half an hour later, informing him when he removed a bud that their section had been called to board. House grunted and stood, ignoring the curious glances of passers-by. Glances were better than outright stares. He remained silent and followed behind Wilson as he led them to their seats—in commercial class, of course, with Cuddy being the penny-pincher she was—since it was far too early to be witty or sarcastic.

He jostled Wilson out of the way and stole the aisle seat so that he would be able to stretch his leg out into the aisle. Wilson shook his head and sat in the middle seat, smiling at the rather mousey woman who was already seated by the window.

“Hello, I’m James Wilson,” he said with his typically charming boyish grin. The woman smiled shyly and House didn’t bother listening to the rest. The Panty Peeler was on the prowl. House turned his iPod back on and sat back, closing his eyes and betting himself two beers that Wilson would either be married or at least in post-coital bliss by the time they landed. It was a crappy bet.

James Wilson loved women. That much was obvious to House and anyone else who interacted with him on a fairly regular basis. He loved their bodies, their smell, their hair, their dainty habits and their soft submissiveness. He loved their appeal and their normalcy and the Rockwellian ideal they represented that he repeatedly sought after. He knew how to draw them in, how to pose as their very own personal knight in shining armor, and even when he didn’t do it on purpose, his natural gregariousness and compassion drew them to him like a moth to flames.

It was ironic that Wilson’s biggest problem was actually staying in love with women. House had watched from a distance as Wilson threw himself at women time and time again and had vaguely wondered how the oncologist could stand the disappointment of never finding what he was looking for. And, considering the revelations of the last few days, it made him damn curious as to why Wilson had never widened his search into the other half of the human population. There was no doubt that the man would have the same appeal to men as he did to women. Physically, anyway.

Still, House reflected over the strained conversation after they had been informed of this trip and concluded that maybe Wilson was finally realizing that he couldn’t continue the way he had been for the last fifteen years. And if Wilson decided it was time for a change…

The plane shuddered as it took off and a new song began to play in House’s ears. He kept his eyes closed and drifted. Even though the coffee Wilson had stopped for on the way to the airport had worn off and he was starting to feel the strain of early travel, it was nearly impossible for him to fall asleep on a plane. Luckily, he had mastered the art of resting both his body and his overactive mind during the frequent plane rides when he was a kid. Nothing like spending fourteen silent hours in a cramped space with a stone-cold father and a mother who had placed herself in a medicated sleep for the trip for teaching himself how to cope with boredom.

House emerged from his self-imposed exile forty minutes later to flag the flight attendant down for a Sprite and an update on his travel companion. Wilson was immersed in his Doyle novel and barely glanced up to smile when the attendant dropped off House’s drink. Interestingly, his posture was fairly screaming discomfort; his shoulders were tense and hunched up on the side closest to the mousey woman next to the window, his knees pointed slightly away from her as well and his head tilted toward House. She was staring at a flight magazine—easily the most boring piece of literature ever produced for mass consumption—with studied interest and she had one ear bud in.

_Huh._

A faint smirk quirked his lips and he opened his mouth to say something when a thick, stocky man in the aisle squashed close to House’s seat to make way for a pretty woman passing him. Annoyed, House started to make a comment about not appreciating the view of the man’s ass in his face when his bad leg was jostled and pressed hard into the unforgiving seat in front. Pain flared to life and crawled its way up House’s thigh and into his spine, blazing a path straight to his brain.

He stifled a groan as he automatically bent to protect the injured limb. There was no room in the small area and he hissed in pain when the oblivious man moved away, freeing his thigh from where it was pinned. He dragged his bad leg in from the aisle and hunched over it panting while he placed his hands lightly over the injured spot. The neuralgia was not easily sated with massages like a cramp was; often, putting pressure on the damaged nerves was even more painful and definitely harder to deal with.

House fumbled for his Vicodin bottle, not hesitating to swallow a pill this time. He felt a warm hand on his back, realizing it had been there for a while, rubbing in slow circles while House gritted his teeth and wrestled with himself.

“House? House, give me a number,” Wilson was saying, his voice low and doctor-steady. “What do you need?”

“’m fine,” House muttered finally, feeling the meds starting to kick in. “Five, six. Getting better. Just a bump.”

“Are you sure? We’re landing in ten minutes, will you be OK until then?”

“I’m _fine,_ mother. Stop worrying, I’m a big boy now. Tied my own shoes and everything.” House stole Wilson’s half-finished glass of water on his fold-out tray and downed it in one gulp.

“Thank God. That’s one less thing I have to do for you.” Wilson sounded warm and relieved. The hand didn’t move away when House leaned back in his seat; instead it migrated to his shoulder and stayed there. House didn’t protest. He ran a hand over his leg soothingly and closed his eyes, taking deep breaths.

“Sir, are you alright? Do you feel ill?” House opened his eyes, looking up at the pert young attendant who was watching him with concern. _Probably doesn’t want to have to clean up vomit from pesky passengers again,_ House thought.

“He’s fine. He’s already taken his medication,” Wilson broke in. He flashed his panty-peeling grin at the woman. “Thank you for your concern.”

“It’s no problem. Can I get your partner a glass of water or something to snack on?” The woman asked, glancing at Wilson’s hand absently rubbing House’s shoulder. Any pain vanished instantly from House’s mind when he realized her mistake and a devilish grin crept over his features. The look of bewilderment that was rapidly approaching horrified on Wilson’s face made it even better.

“Wha—oh. Oh! N-no, we’re not—”

“No, thank you,” House interrupted loudly, placing his hand over Wilson’s with an affectionate squeeze. “My boyfriend already gave me his water. He’s so considerate; I wonder everyday why he chose _me_ out of all the men in New Jersey.”

“ _House_ —”

“You’re very lucky to have found each other,” the attendant agreed with a sunny smile at the both of them. People were starting to glance over at them with strange expressions. House leaned forward.

“We’re on our tenth anniversary getaway,” House said in a stage whisper with a saucy wink. “He’s an _insatiable_ romantic!” The attendant giggled and went on her way. House finally removed his hand from Wilson’s and the oncologist immediately snatched it back to join its counterpart in cradling his burning face.

“God, House, I can’t go anywhere with you!” Wilson groaned. The mousey woman next to the window was studiously ignoring both of them, looking tense and highly embarrassed. House suddenly thought that he had an idea why things were so cool between her and Wilson. _Oh, this is too good._

“You can’t deny our love. We’re here, we’re queer, and people better get used to it.”

Wilson sighed and threw up his hands in defeat. “Sure, why not let everyone think we’re having a homosexual relationship? It’s not like people haven’t thought it before. I should be used to this by now.”

House nodded agreeably. “Of course. You must have started giving off more gay pheromones than usual in the last week or so. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“I’m ignoring you now.” Wilson turned his attention back to his novel and pointedly raised it in front of his face until he couldn’t see House anymore.

“Spoilsport. You’re no fun anymore,” House pouted. “Guess it hits too close to home now, huh?” He saw Wilson’s fingers tighten on the edges of his book and decided to back off. They were almost landing soon, anyway, and if he wanted to get off this plane then he didn’t need Wilson sulking.

Twenty minutes later, having said a glad goodbye to the mousey woman and waiting for most of the other passengers to leave, Wilson was wheeling House without protest out of the plane and into the airport. The pert attendant from before winked at him and House grinned in return. He made Wilson get their bags but had recovered enough to take his own once they had arrived at the hotel. He set it down next to the check-in desk and surveyed the bustling lobby while he waited for Wilson to take care of everything. His wandering attention was caught by Wilson suddenly stiffening next to him.

“What?” Wilson blurted. “There must be a mistake; Dr. Lisa Cuddy—the Dean of Medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital—arranged everything for us four days ago. She said we would each have a room.”

The desk attendant looked politely skeptical but typed some keys and shook his head. “I’m sorry, but there is no mistake. There is a sci-fi convention this weekend as well and we’re filled to capacity. Dr. Cuddy had indicated that either separate rooms or a shared room was acceptable. We called when it was clear that we could use an extra room and she confirmed that you wouldn’t mind sharing a room.”

“But—but there’s only one bed!” Wilson was starting to look faintly panicked, the dismay clear on his face.

“Again, I’m sorry, sir, but there’s nothing we can do,” the man said firmly. “The last shared room we have left is only a queen.”

“Relax, Jimmy,” House said, rolling his eyes. “It’s not like we haven’t shared a bed before. I promise I won’t get grabby.” It was true. They had had to share rooms—and sometimes beds—at conferences before because of Cuddy’s penny-pinching ways and it had never been a problem. And there had been times after the infarction when Wilson had climbed into House’s bed to hold him while he shuddered and cried from the overwhelming pain. Of course, it was easy to see why Wilson was so uptight about it _now_. The fodder House could get out of this could last for months.

Wilson looked reluctant but gave in, receiving their keys with a disgruntled pout. “Don’t say a word,” he warned lowly as they crossed the lobby and he looked serious enough that House just saluted and mimed zipping his mouth closed. They remained silent as they entered the elevator and found their room. It was large and spacious—much like the rest of the hotel—but House only had eyes for the bed, which looked soft and inviting. He dumped his suitcase on the ground carelessly and collapsed on the bed without a second thought.

He heard Wilson sigh. There was a rustle of plastic as the oncologist hung up their respective suits—which Wilson had insisted they bring—in the closet and then the bustle of Wilson unpacking his suitcase and toiletries. The sound was familiar and comforting and House found himself drifting off to sleep only minutes later.

* * *

They spent the afternoon alternately napping, eating, and browsing the cable channels. By the time House had woken up from his nap, Wilson seemed to have gotten over his homoerotic freak-out and was propped up comfortably on the bed next to House, shoes off and hair tousled. An hour before the welcome dinner, Wilson started pestering House to get ready until House threatened to lock himself in the bathroom and take Wilson’s hair dryer hostage. Wilson countered by stealing House’s Nintendo—his only source of distraction for the seminars to come. After half an hour of arguing they both had to rush to get there on time.

Wilson was about as relaxed as he could be, considering that he had “outed” himself to his best friend and was now forced to sleep in the same bed as said friend. House actually wasn’t being too bad about the whole situation. Sure, he made gay jokes and outrageous insinuations to complete strangers, but that was really on-par with House’s normal behavior. The sheer normalcy of it all was making Wilson worried that House was only pulling his punches until he hatched a scheme to humiliate Wilson in front of the whole hospital or something.

For now, Wilson wasn’t too worried. They were seated at one of the few empty tables in the large dining hall and House was making typical crack diagnoses of the conference’s attendees. A distracted House was a tractable House, and Wilson was content to let his friend ramble while he sniggered and ate the food.

“Looks like the fun’s starting,” House said suddenly, watching as two men approached their table. Wilson noted that they were Dandruff and Fat Elvis (as House had dubbed them not fifteen minutes ago). As an oncologist in a room full of infectious disease experts, Wilson had little to relate to with the others and he wasn’t really interested in meeting people he’d likely never see again after this weekend. But his impeccable manners and loyalty to the hospital made him smile at the newcomers.

“Hey there, partners, mind if we join ya?” Dandruff asked with a thick Southern twang that made Wilson wince at the thought of what House could do to this man. Wilson shook his head and House shrugged and they sat. Dandruff stuck his hand out over the table. “I’m Mac Tinney, specialist at Austin General in Texas, and this here’s Jon Pearson from Boston. How about this conference, huh? I hear this year’s going to be a real hoot—you know they’ve got Gregory House to finally come and speak? They’ve been trying to get ‘im for years—I know for a fact that half the people here only came just for that reason.”

Wilson stifled a grin. House was eying the chattering man like he was a particularly vile stool sample and when his name was mentioned he rolled his eyes and stood up abruptly.

“I’m going to the bar,” he grunted, already limping away. “Come find me if you can get Yankee Doodle Dandy over there to stop tooting his horn,” he added over his shoulder. Wilson pretended not to hear. Dandruff blinked, bewildered.

“Was it somethin’ I said?”

“No, don’t worry about him,” Wilson said breezily. “Our boss made us come to this and he’s not happy about it. He’ll stop sulking soon enough.” _Once the conference is over, at least._ For all his obnoxious pride, House was uncomfortable with a lot of attention and despised blind adoration from doctors in the medical community who had heard of the prodigious mortality rate among his patients and his ingenious diagnoses. Here, at least, House’s propensity for avoiding cameras and his cane was an advantage. No one knew what he looked like and no one expected a scruffy cripple to be a brilliant doctor.

“So what’s yer name?” Dandruff asked. He did, indeed, have dandruff on the shoulders of his powder-blue shirt, but how House had spotted that from across the room Wilson had no idea. Dandruff was tall and lean with a long face, short blonde hair, and wispy **e** yebrows. His round blue eyes and crooked front teeth gave the impression of a young boy on his first field trip.

“I’m James Wilson, Head of Oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro,” Wilson said politely. That made Fat Elvis turn his attention away from his mashed potatoes and blink ponderously at him from across the table. Wilson didn’t think he looked like Elvis at all, fat or not, but he supposed that the thick black sideburns and thick glasses could possibly be vaguely Elvis-like.

“Princeton-Plainsboro? Isn’t that where Dr. House works as well?”

“Hoppin’ hippopotamus, Jon, yer right!” Dandruff crowed, slapping the other man on the back. Fat Elvis shot him a dark look. Dandruff leaned across the table eagerly. “D’ya know Dr. House? What’s he like? Can’t imagine you’d have much reason to run into him what with you bein’ in oncology and all, but I’ve only heard rumors about this guy.”

“You’d be surprised; Dr. House gets around the hospital when he’s looking for a case,” Wilson said. “He’s… very dedicated to medicine and doesn’t often let things get in the way when he’s diagnosing a patient. He’s really very brilliant, if slightly eccentric.”

This was hardly a first. The fact was that House was well-known in the medical community worldwide, especially among infectious disease experts, and Wilson had had this same conversation with anyone who found out where he worked or—heaven forbid—that he was friends with House. People generally didn’t know that House was an opinionated, misanthropic ass or that his brilliant diagnoses usually came about through unethical, illegal means, and Wilson was happy to leave them to their ignorance. The truth was far too personal and complicated to even attempt to explain.

Dandruff and Fat Elvis tried to question him some more, but he kept his answers fairly vague and they eventually gave up. They finally left to mingle with more engaging specialists and Wilson accepted a dessert bowl from a passing waiter. Savoring a large bite of thick fudge cake and vanilla ice cream, he looked around for House. Finally, he spotted him at the bar on the other end of the room nursing a bourbon.

To Wilson’s surprise, House was actually talking to someone; a shorter man with dark blonde hair and a sharp suit, from what Wilson could tell from behind. House’s expression was… strange. Wilson wasn’t sure he’d ever seen it before. It wasn’t his _you’re-an-idiot-and-you-should-be-grateful-I’m-still-bothering-to-talk-to-you_ expression or even his _back-off-unless-you-want-to-be-verbally-eviscerated_ look. There was some sarcasm, yes, but House said everything with sarcasm. It was more… interested? A little curious? His lips were quirked up on one side in that half-smile that Wilson secretly loved that meant that House was truly amused.

Then House leered outrageously, looking the man up and down blatantly. _Oh no_ , Wilson thought, _it’s only the first night and he’s already going to get punched out._ But to his shock, the blonde man appeared to laugh and lean forward, placing his hand significantly on House’s arm. His head tilted suggestively and Wilson watched House’s expression change to something more heated and serious. He didn’t move away.

 _Oh. My_. God.

The realization hit him like a tidal wave. House was being hit on. That man was _hitting_ _on_ House. On _House_. _His_ House. And it didn’t seem like House minded at all.

Of course, Wilson had known that House was bi-sexual, but he had rarely seen even women come on to the irascible man, much less men. If House ever went to gay bars or hired male prostitutes, he certainly hadn’t told Wilson. Which, Wilson reflected, was probably a good thing since he wasn’t sure that he wanted to know. Seeing House really, actively flirting with a man disturbed him in ways he didn’t really understand. He didn’t have a problem with House being attracted to men—that would be hypocritical in the extreme—but the thought of House actually sleeping with some random man at a conference made Wilson’s chest tighten and his jaw clench. It was repulsive on a visceral level Wilson didn’t even know he had.

He looked away from the two men and stabbed his cake, which barely tasted like anything anymore. He was flustered, confused. This had never happened before.

Then again, the only time he had seen someone—who wasn’t privy to House’s credit card number—flirt back with House was Stacy and Cameron. With Stacy, House had been in love and when it was over it seemed like part of him had been torn away with the dead muscles in his thigh. With everyone else, House flirted heavily, but it was never serious; everyone knew that. Except, apparently, Cameron, but Wilson knew nothing would ever happen there. The idea that something could possibly _happen_ with someone again—and a man, at that…

But no. House wouldn’t sleep with a man he had just met at the bar. Not that House didn’t have one-night-stands occasionally, but he wouldn’t accept a proposition while he was sharing a room—a bed!—with Wilson. It’s not like he could kick Wilson out. He looked over at the bar again. They were talking and Blondie’s hand was still on House’s arm casually and House was half-smiling again.

Wilson mentally slapped himself. This was stupid. He looked away. House could just go to Fabio’s room and leave Wilson alone in their room. He scowled down at his melting ice cream. He knew he should be happy for House—it would be a major self-esteem boost (and Wilson knew that House’s ego rarely ventured anywhere outside of medicine) and God, he was a man after all, and House had needs just like anyone else. It just worried (disturbed) Wilson that the strange man didn’t know anything about House—his cluttered and homey apartment, his hidden tenderness, how his leg hurts during a storm, his favorite candy flavor, his brilliance, his brooding, his favorite take-out place or his favorite dish—

_God, I’m not his mother! House can sleep with whoever he wants, wherever he wants, whenever he wants. It just a one-night-stand, they’re not getting married. For Christ’s sake! I’m pathetic. I’m clinging to House like a baby with his blankie._

He couldn’t stop himself from looking over again. They were gone. Wilson felt a pang in his chest and sucked in a short breath. He knew what they had gone to do.

He let out his breath in a sigh and looked down to mutilate the rest of his dessert. He blinked when he saw that his bowl was gone.

“I know cake isn’t your favorite dessert, but did you have to kill it?” House said, nearly scaring the piss out of him.

“House, don’t sneak up on me like that!” Wilson gasped, clutching his chest. His heart felt like it had jumped into his throat from relief. “And I didn’t kill it. I like it that way,” he lied. House looked at him skeptically and scooped up a goopy spoonful pointedly. Wilson shrugged.

“I saw that you made a friend over at the bar. Who was he?” He asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

House shrugged. “Some viral expert from Florida. Got me a drink, talked about the club scenes around here. Why, jealous?”

“Hardly. Just... stunned. You mean you actually had a polite conversation with him? Cuddy and I can’t get you to have a decent conversation with a donor to save our lives.”

“Donors are boring. He was… interesting.”

 _I’ll bet_ , Wilson thought bitterly. There were few people House classified as interesting, and Wilson was usually at the top of that list. He couldn’t help wondering if he had been replaced.

The topic was dropped and things seemed to go back to normal. House made no sign of planning to meet Blondie again and gradually the situation faded from Wilson’s mind and he relaxed once more. More doctors approached House once word got around that he was there and it wasn’t long before he was scowling and dragging Wilson back up to their room to escape the throng. Wilson tensed up again, waiting for House to mention oh-so-casually that he was going to the bar and then not see him again until morning.

But House was already settling himself in comfortably and didn’t seem to be planning to move anytime soon. He toed off his shoes, threw his blazer over a chair, flopped onto the bed, and switched the TV on to a crappy action movie. Wilson took a little more time to put his clothes away properly before joining him on the bed, clad in sweatpants and a t-shirt.

“Ugh, is this the movie with the guy from ‘The Pacifier’ in it?” he asked ten minutes later, disgusted.

“Hey, Vin Diesel could kick anyone’s ass any day. The man has the name of a powerful and manly engine; who cares if he wiped snot and poop off of babies for two hours out of his whole career?”

Wilson snorted. “Please. He gave up what little claim to awesomeness he had when he made that movie. It’s the same situation as Schwarzenegger in ‘Junior’. That’s how everyone remembers him now.”

“Except for the whole male pregnancy and gender confusion.”

“Well, yes.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. They finished the movie and Wilson turned in, snapping off the light on his side of the bed as he did so. The light on House’s side remained on and Wilson heard the rustle of pages as House opened a book or medical journal. Luckily, he was well-used to House’s insomniac tendencies and it seemed that he was asleep within minutes, the warm weight and steady breathing a comfort to him.

He woke hours later to a sudden shift on the mattress and a low grunt of pain. He sat up, blinking in the darkness, as warning bells went off in his suddenly-alert mind.

“House? What is it?” He said groggily, switching his light on and turning to House’s side of the bed. His friend was stretched on his back, spine arched and head pressed back into the pillow. His hands grabbed at his thigh and his teeth were clenched in pain.

“Cramp,” he grunted. Wilson was already pulling the covers back, moving around the bed to House’s side and assessing the damage. His friend’s shirt was damp with sweat, indicating that he had been in pain for a while before it got this bad, and the lid to the Vicodin bottle was gone, pills scattered over the nightstand.

“House, how many pills did you take?” Wilson asked urgently, leaning over to look into the diagnostician’s eyes.

“Three… four? Not more than that.” He drew in a sharp breath and closed his eyes. “Dammit! Hurts, Jimmy.”

“I know, I know it does,” Wilson said soothingly, squeezing House’s shoulder and running his hand through his friend’s short hair. His other hand settled on House’s thigh, just below the infarction site. House flinched away and his eyes snapped open in alarm.

“It’s okay. Let me help you,” Wilson murmured, meeting House’s eyes squarely. After a long moment, House nodded and closed his eyes, turning his head away with a stifled groan. Wilson helped him pull his sleep pants down to his knees and tugged the leg of his boxer briefs up to expose the twitching muscles. As soon as Wilson’s hands touched his warm flesh, House transferred his death grip to the sheets beside his hips, forcing himself to breathe deeplythrough his nose.

“Come on, you know what to do,” Wilson said reassuringly, barely aware of what he was saying. “Relax for me, Greg. There you go, that’s better. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” House rarely let him do this even when he was in the same room when it was happening, and he _never_ asked Wilson to do it. But when House let him do it, Wilson was so focused on the task that he barely realized that he was calling House by his first name. It was the only time that he ever did so.

Wilson pressed and kneaded the tight muscles while House sweated and groaned and panted like a dying animal. Eventually, the muscle quieted and the Vicodin kicked in and Wilson retrieved the heated pad from his suitcase to wrap around House’s thigh on the highest setting. Finally, he collapsed back on his side of the bed, exhausted and yet wide awake. They didn’t have to say anything; the silence was comfortable and familiar. After fifteen minutes, House stirred, cautiously testing his leg.

“I need a shower,” he said, wrinkling his nose at his sweat-soaked undershirt. Wilson guessed that he could probably use a shower as well, but he was already shaking his head.

“No way. That’s a standard hotel bathroom; you won’t be able to support yourself in the shower without grab bars or a shower chair. You’ll be fine until the morning; it’s not like I haven’t smelled you before.”

“I’m not gonna sleep like this,” House protested, scowling. “I’m not stupid and I’m not five years old. I know how to keep from falling on my ass in the bathroom.”

“’Knowing’ doesn’t have anything to do with a wet, slippery bathtub. You’ll fall on your ass and be in traction before you can wash off the shampoo. There’s no way you can do it alone.”

“Then come with me, you idiot,” House said, exasperation and frustration clear in his tone. “I won’t fall if you’re there hovering like a hen.”

That made Wilson pause. House was clearly not in the mood to be placated; he had dug his feet into the ground and wouldn’t let up until he got what he wanted. In the long run, it would be better for House to have help if he was hell-bent on showering, and if he was willing…

Wilson nodded. “Alright. Let me get things ready.”

House blinked and squinted at him suspiciously, which Wilson ignored as he gathered up clean clothes for both of them. In the bathroom, he made sure that the floor was clear of towels and turned on the lights as he went back into the bedroom. House had maneuvered himself to the edge of the bed and was steeling himself to take his weight on his cane. Wilson hurried to his side and helped him stand.

They made their way to the bathroom, slow and silent as House gingerly tested the strength of his leg. The Vicodin seemed to be doing its job; House barely flinched from pain although Wilson could tell that he was putting as little weight on the leg as possible. In the bathroom, House propped himself up on the counter while Wilson turned on the shower in the tub and adjusted the temperature to just this side of too hot.

He straightened and turned. House had undressed and his head was bent, absently rubbing his cratered thigh. Wilson let out a short sigh; it had been a long time since he had seen House completely nude and House was obviously still uncomfortable about him seeing the scar. Wilson had become inured to the sight while he helped House regain his mobility after the infarction, and while the loss of muscle tone in the leg was disheartening, truthfully House had little to be ashamed of. His body was that of an aging athlete; still strong and lean, and throughout his recovery his arms had become like iron pillars.

When he realized that his gaze was wandering past the dark trail of hair beneath House’s navel and was lingering on the sharp hip bones that led to the soft junction between his legs, Wilson jerked his eyes away and quickly removed his clothes as well. He tried to suppress the blush that wanted to creep over his cheeks and kicked the dirty clothes out of the way.

“Ready?” he asked. House nodded, still barely lifting his eyes from the floor. Wilson reached out and grasped his best friend’s arm. “Relax,” he said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “It’s just me. And it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“Yeah, in your dreams,” House snorted, relaxing fractionally under Wilson’s gentle squeeze. His eyes swept up from Wilson’s feet to his eyes, a warm expression in his bright blue eyes that Wilson couldn’t immediately identify. It made a shiver of awareness travel up his spine and he felt an answering shudder in House’s body near his.

“Come on, it’s freezing out here. If we don’t get into the shower the hot water’s going to be all gone,” Wilson said as he supported House to the tub and helped him over.

House hissed when the hot water touched him, shuffling away from it to let Wilson in after him. “God, that’s good,” he groaned, shifting his bad leg directly into the path of the showerhead. Wilson let the diagnostician bask in the hot water while he quickly soaped himself up and scrubbed some shampoo into his hair. Deciding to forego the conditioner in favor of time—and House not making fun of him—he rinsed off and let House lean against him while the older doctor did the same.

The heat of House’s slick skin against his felt good; far better than it should, given the circumstances. He thought of the attractive, sharply-dressed man that was chatting up House at the bar and felt a sharp stab of pride and possessiveness at the thought that the man wouldn’t have been able to help House if his leg had cramped up in the middle of the night. Wilson was the only person he allowed to touch his leg, much less see it and him this way.

Once House had finished rinsing off, Wilson shut off the water and helped him out of the tub. As he did so, he noticed that House was half-erect. He looked away, knowing he was blushing for certain now. It was the heat of the water, he told himself, and the lack of pain. The hot water had had a similar affect on him and he didn’t hesitate to wrap a towel around his waist after handing House a towel to do the same.

Of course, it wasn’t the first time they had seen each other aroused, though it usually wasn’t while they were nude together. They had watched porn together, after all, and one of them—Wilson, usually—had had to retreat to the bathroom to take care of the problem. And House had had similar reactions to the easing of his pain after Wilson had given him massages to work the muscles in his thigh through a cramp. Still, Wilson hadn’t actually _seen_ House’s penis while he was aroused and he didn’t know how to stop wondering what it looked like when it was fully erect and twitching with eagerness. He wondered what House’s expression would be at that moment of blinding, animalistic passion.

Shaking himself out of those dangerous thoughts, Wilson dressed in clean boxers and an undershirt before helping House pull up his clean pair of boxer briefs. This brought him eye-to-eye with House’s penis and he couldn’t help but pause for a split second before he turned his head and let House pull them the rest of the way up in privacy.

House was quieter than usual on the way back to the bed. Wilson didn’t press, noticing the exhaustion and haziness in House’s eyes. After they had settled back in, heating pad on full blast, the diagnostician immediately fell asleep and Wilson, staring at his friend’s profile through the darkness and listening to his even breathing, quickly followed suit.

As was his habit, Wilson woke fairly early in the morning. He blinked in the early-morning light, wondering if the events of the previous night were only a dream. The whole situation seemed hazy and improbable enough—what was all of that about House naked?—but when he moved his head he felt the dampness of his pillow and the kinks in his hair. The next thing he noticed was that his back was pressed up against another—definitely male—chest and an arm was wrapped tight around his waist, the large warm hand splayed against his belly where his shirt had ridden up in the night. House’s bad leg was thrown over his legs.

He was effectively trapped. And from the sound of House’s soft snores, he wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon. The four Vicodin House had taken just a few hours ago, while not enough for him to overdose, was enough to knock him out until late morning, at least.

Cautiously, Wilson tried to move House’s arm. It tightened possessively, drawing him back to House’s chest, and House growled warningly. No, it didn’t seem like he would be moving soon.

With little else to do, Wilson relaxed and enjoyed the warmth surrounding him. It felt like he had been alone for far too long, and the closeness of another human being was welcome and comforting. Especially since it was House, whose personal boundaries rivaled the Great Wall of China in breadth and imperviousness. He reveled in this display of unconscious affection. Before he knew it, he had fallen back asleep.

When Wilson woke again, it was nearly two hours later and a hard, hot length of flesh was pressed tight against his backside. A tingle of awareness started in his hips and shot up his spine and back down to start a low burn in his abdomen.

_Damn. For a fifty-year-old man suffering from chronic pain and an addiction to Vicodin, he certainly doesn’t have a problem getting it up._

He unconsciously shifted against it, freezing when he heard House suck in a breath and groan softly behind him. House’s hips thrust forward once automatically before he sighed and rolled away, onto his back. Wilson rolled onto his back as well, seeing in the corner of his eye that House had thrown up his arm to cover his face.

Not sure how to react—not sure if he _should_ react—Wilson sighed quietly and turned his head toward the window. In doing so, he caught sight of the clock. He cursed and launched up, throwing the covers aside haphazardly in his hurry.

“Damn! It’s nearly ten; the first seminar started an hour ago, House!”

“Does it look like I care?” House said lazily, his words muffled by the arm thrown over his face. Wilson didn’t bother to respond, already pulling off his undershirt so that he could wet his hair down and dry it quickly so it wasn’t kinked and frazzled. When he emerged from the bathroom, House was just sitting up and taking his morning pill. Wilson tossed his clothes at him.

“I can’t believe I slept in so long,” he fretted, yanking on his own clothes and straightening his tie in the mirror. “How will it look when we sneak in the back like some pot-head teenagers? Thank God your lecture isn’t until tomorrow night.”

“Relax, before you give yourself an ulcer,” House snapped. Wilson bit back a retort and concentrated on getting ready as quickly as possible and still appearing decent. House was moving a little more slowly than usual—no doubt due to some lingering weakness in his thigh—but they managed to leave their room by 10:30, just in time to make it to the next lecture. House spent the time noisily decimating aliens on his Nintendo DS, ignoring the irritated glances from around them.

At lunch, seeing that the offered fare was limited, House insisted on Wilson taking a cab with him to a local deli for a Reuben.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry it breaks off right in the middle of things. Believe it or not, this does have a complete plot and ending outlined, but unfortunately I was unable to finish it. Liked my writing? You might like my Tumblr. rosyourboat.tumblr.com


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